The Dentist Appointment

I hate dentists. Well, it’s not personal really. I’m sure some of them are good fellows whom one can have a beer with. What I was referring to was the act of sitting in their chair with my mouth hanging open, waiting for them to do stuff to me. I hate the pain in my teeth, the uneasy feeling in my mouth, the high-pitched hum of their tooth-drill or whatever it is. So, to correct myself, I hate dentist appointments.

I had a dentist appointment last Sunday to get a cavity filled. From the moment I scheduled that appointment, a week in advance, I was cringing in anticipation. Dr. Edward, my dentist, is a decent bloke. He even supports Real Madrid, my favorite soccer club. But I dreaded being in his chair, a hapless victim to his assortment of needles, syringes and other instruments of torture.

The next day, I drove past Dr. Edward’s office, on my way to work. I found my thoughts drifting to the upcoming cavity filling. Images came into my head of me sitting back in the dental chair, gripping the armrests, blinded by the light on my face, waiting for the needles to strike. My hands began to shake at the steering wheel.

Then, I pulled myself back to reality. Chill out, man, Right now, you’re just driving your car. Nothing bad is happening to you. Focus on the road.

The rest of the week went along. Two days before the appointment, I was in the grocery store picking out some candy when I saw him. Dr. Edward himself. The chief tormentor of my thoughts. He was examining some cereal. I felt the muscles on my face freeze. I could see his syringe inching towards my mouth. In panic, I threw the box of KitKat, paid for my groceries and scrambled to my car. My mouth still felt numb from imaginary anesthesia and sharp syringes.

I snapped myself back to the present. Relax. You’re just standing here. There are no syringes. There’ll be time for that later. Relax now.

I woke up on Sunday morning and stretched myself. I looked out the window and saw it was a bright sunny day. Then it hit me. Today was the day. The sound of the tooth drill drowned out the birds chirping outside my window. My mouth felt full of saliva. I needed to spit out. I rushed to the bathroom and gargled.

Take it easy. You’re at home. No drill is touching you as of now. Enjoy the clear blue sky and make a nice breakfast. You can deal with the dentist later.

At 2:00 pm, I sat in the waiting room. My hands turned the pages of some magazine but I wasn’t really looking. My whole body had gone tense. I heard the drill from the inside room – the real drill this time. I clutched my jaw. The sharp end of the drill would pierce my molars. My teeth started to chatter.

I returned my attention to my actual surroundings. Why are you tensing? Right now, you’re sitting in the waiting room. There are no instruments assaulting your mouth. Why not read a nice article?

The dentist’s assistant came up to me. “We’re ready for you.”

“N-Now?” I stammered. I rose to my feet unsteadily. I walked into the office, feeling like a man on death row. This is the moment. I found myself lying on the chair. Dr. Edward smiled and made some joke about the soccer game. I nodded but I barely heard him.

I stared at the light above my face. I took a glance at the instruments on the table. The drill was there, with its tip facing upwards. It had me in its sights. I felt as though it was taunting me. I looked at the tweezers, the syringe, the forceps. The whole gang was there. Ready for war. I could already feel the solid metal forceps tug hard at my canines, the sharp probes poke away at my molars, and then the machine drill go in for the kill. My forehead knotted up in pain. The inside of my mouth, my gums, my lips started to recoil in despair.

I forced myself to take a few deep breaths. It’s alright, buddy. At this moment, there is nothing happening. You are not experiencing any pain. You’re sitting in an expensive leather chair. Why not lean back and get comfortable?

Twenty minutes later, my cavity was filled. It was over. I had felt tiny stabs of pain, which were trifles compared to what my imagination had conjured up.

I thanked Dr. Edward, and settled the bill with the assistant. As I walked out the door, I was reminded of an old saying, “A coward dies a thousand deaths…”